


The Human Element

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alien Culture, Anger, Arguments, Awkwardness, Balloons, Chemical Weapons, Chemicals, Collaboration, Confessions, Cranky People, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drama, Explosions, Fluff and Humor, Grumpiness, Hugs, Intervention, Lies, Mad Science, Mechanics, Medical Procedures, Multi, New Customs, Office Party, Pace Mates, Plans For The Future, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Rants, Science Experiments, Sparkly Stuff, Stalling for Time, Surprise Party, Surprises, Team as Family, Transformers Spark Bonds, Twins, confetti, planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 14:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4568541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“…and stay out! I don’t want to see another human for the rest of this tricursed orn!”<em></em></em>
</p><p>Ratchet is being even more uptight than usual, especially about humans, so a few of his friends decide to intercede in the ways that they know best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Human Element

“…and _stay out!_ Humans can’t _begin_ to understand our biology, so they shouldn’t be tampering with it! I don’t want to see another human for the rest of this tricursed orn!”

Wheeljack narrowly missed stepping on Sparkplug Witwicky as he hurried out of the primary lab. The human looked quite disconcerted, so Wheeljack crouched and questioned, “What’s up, Sparkplug?”

Sparkplug paused a moment before half-shrugging uncertainly. “Wheeljack…how long is an orn for you Cybertronians?”

“An orn? That’s a day.” Tilting his helm slightly, Wheeljack added, “Why do you ask?”

“A day. Okay, so…Ratchet doesn’t want to see me for the rest of the day.” Tsking, Sparkplug folded his arms and shook his head, answering Wheeljack’s unspoken question. “I tried to help when he was inspecting Optimus’ audials, which were damaged in the last battle you guys had with the Cons.” Wheeljack barked a short laugh, blinkering his audial strobes, and Sparkplug’s head jerked up in surprise. “What?”

“Oh, it’s just something that we’ve come to call Code Primeval. If Optimus is taken to the med bay and Ratchet’s on call, it doesn’t matter how badly you’re hurt. You’ll wait, because it’s the old way of doing things: just the medic and his star patient. When that medic is _Ratchet_ and he’s inspecting _Optimus_ , we all know better than to try helping him,” Wheeljack explained.

“Well, I didn’t,” Sparkplug protested, “and apparently I messed something up. Ratchet flipped out on me.”

“He’s just protective of Prime,” Wheeljack said apologetically. “And he’s been stressed lately, what with the Cons’ recent increase in activity. He probably just needs something to cheer him up, some sort of peace offering.”

“Like what? He suddenly seems to hate humans and their way of doing things,” Sparkplug grumbled.

“How about a party? I can take care of everythin’ for you!”

The third voice startled both mechanics, who whirled around to find Jazz with his visor alight and a grin stretched from audial-to-audial.

“I have about a breem to throw somethin’ special together, but I’ll need some help,” Jazz mused. “Lemme see now, location, guests…Jackie, I’ll need the lab.”

“My lab?”

Jazz’s smile faltered a little but then returned as he stretched his arm past Wheeljack and tapped lightly on the doorframe to his left. “ _This_ lab. You need to get Ratchet out of it so I can set this thing up.”

From the way Wheeljack’s optics enlarged, the two onlookers could tell he was gaping behind his facemask. “It’s Code Primeval, Jazz! How do you expect me to pull Ratchet away from that?!”

“Do what you do, my mech,” Jazz urged. “Blow somethin’ up! Ooh!” Leaning back, he stretched his other arm the other way, snagging the first two passers-by that had come along—namely, Bumblebee and Brawn.

“Hey, you two! Tell the rest of your pace, Blaster, _both_ sets of Twins, and the Dinobots: we’re havin’ a surprise bash for Ratchet! It’s happenin’ in the doc’s lab in a breem.”

Bumblebee’s optics lit up in delight. “That’s great, Jazz! We haven’t had a party in ages—”

“A _breem_?” Brawn interrupted, wearing the same incredulous expression as Wheeljack. “You can’t be serious, Jazz!”

“Nope, that’s one thing I can never be!” Jazz agreed cheerfully. “Go tell ’em quick! Oh, and this is the doozy: you have that same amount of time to think up a cheery human custom to bring to the group!” As Bumblebee dragged Brawn off to deliver the message, Jazz glanced over his shoulder at Wheeljack and Sparkplug.

“That custom rule goes for you too! The theme of this event is imagination!” As Jazz sauntered proudly off, Wheeljack and Sparkplug heard him start singing: “ _You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. I hope someday you’ll join us and the world will be one!_ ”

“Hey, Wheeljack,” Sparkplug started uncertainly, staring at Jazz’s retreating back, “how long is a breem to you guys?”

“Not long enough,” Wheeljack replied weakly. “I need to go make an explosion.”

—

Ratchet had nearly finished fixing what Sparkplug had done to poor Optimus, but then the impatient Prime had dismissed himself as soon as he had turned his back. Blast all of these people interrupting his work. If he had the opportunity to work peacefully— _individually_ —more often, he was certain that many accidents could be avoided.

However, Optimus had given him a _look_ after he’d blown his fuse at the human. Now, as Ratchet began cleaning his tools, he couldn’t get that look out of his CPU. Maybe he’d been a bit harsh, but it was Optimus’ health in question. They couldn’t risk any of that with _him_.

Sometimes, even when they weren’t out on the field of battle, the war never seemed to end. Always there was something to be fixed, somewhere he had to intervene, somebody who just had to be causing—

A muffled boom interrupted his grievances and the shockwave that followed nearly took him off his feet. Seizing the wall, Ratchet threw a hand to his comm. and barked on the open channel, “What in the slaggin’ Allspark was that?!”

Hoist was the one who answered, sounding somewhat harried. “I, uhm, don’t know if you want to ask that question—”

“It’s Wheeljack, isn’t it?!” Ratchet snarled, prompting a nervous laugh from Hoist.

“Guess you didn’t need to ask.”

“Can you handle it?” Ratchet was _not_ in the mood for Wheeljack. Not today.

“Well, he—he’s in stasis, and his burns look pretty bad this time, Ratchet. I don’t think this is in my area of expertise—”

His engine growling, Ratchet snapped, “I’m on my way,” turning on his heelstrut and seizing what he had nicknamed ‘the WheelPACK’, a medical kit always stocked and ready for their blasted engineer.

As he stormed down the hall, Ratchet found himself thankful for small mercies: many of the mechs he came across leapt out of his way as soon as they saw a mere glimmer of red and white.

Smoke was trailing out of the secondary lab Wheeljack had claimed, the doors having been overridden in the open position. Resisting the urge to cough, Ratchet waved the thick black billow out of his face and crouched by Wheeljack’s prostrate form, across from Hoist.

Hoist had been right, Ratchet saw with a grimace. The burns were different from those of the past, dispersed over the outer plating of Wheeljack’s left arm and upper left side. Almost as if he’d known to shield himself, Ratchet noted fleetingly. Usually the injuries were front and center, since Wheeljack never expected it.

“I’d better take him back to my lab to treat this,” Ratchet decided. “Load him in, Hoist.”

However, before he could transform, another eager voice interrupted, “Oh, I’m sure _I_ can handle it, Ratchet.” When the medic glanced toward the door, he found Sparkplug with his toolkit.

 _Slag_ , Ratchet cursed mutely, glaring back. “This is a _medical_ issue and I don’t know if I made myself clear earlier, but I don’t want you involved.”

“Well, since Wheeljack isn’t complaining, I think he’d want my expertise. I’m an engineer too, after all,” Sparkplug announced, skittering across the floor and climbing onto Wheeljack’s left leg before Ratchet could stop him.

“Get off of my patient!” Ratchet commanded.

“If I can’t fix him,” Sparkplug proclaimed as he knelt by Wheeljack’s shoulder joint and stuck his tiny wrench into it, “he can’t be fixed.”

“Probably because of the damage you’ll be inflicting in your ‘fixing’!” Ratchet shot back. “Get off or you might be flung off when I’m taking him to the medical bay!”

“I thought doctors were supposed to do no harm!” Sparkplug reminded him smugly.

“I’m not the one fragging up already-injured Bots!” Ratchet burst out furiously. Was this small, petty engineer _trying_ to goad him on, _trying_ to obstruct him?! Perhaps he was trying to test how long he would stand out against verbal slurs before he backed down.

Little did Sparkplug know that Ratchet had created the _art_ of verbal slurs. The medic almost smirked. His opponent was in for a nice, long rant which he would never forget!

—

“Beeper to Hollywood, come in, Hollywood!” Bumblebee hissed into his comm., optics scanning the mechs running back and forth through the lab. “You there?”

“I told you not to call me that,” Hoist scolded as acknowledgement.

Bumblebee laughed a little, narrowly dodging Bluestreak as he dashed by with a box of tools to shove in a storage unit. “Sorry, but it’s kind of hard to forget that movie debacle. What’s your report?”

“Sparkplug’s doing a novel job of keeping Ratchet hot,” Hoist replied. “I’m outside in the hallway; Ratchet didn’t even notice I left the room!”

“And Wheeljack? He’s not hurt too badly, is he?” Bumblebee tensed in anticipation; hopefully Wheeljack hadn’t gone overboard on ‘going overboard’…

“No, I think he’ll still be able to come to the party once he wakes up. How are things over there? Nearly finished?” Hoist asked hopefully.

“Yep, it’s just the last minute stuff,” Bumblebee assured him. “We’ve decorated all but one of the walls and Grimlock managed to shove a table and chairs through the door, so that’s done.” Pausing a moment, Bumblebee leaned against the nearby wall and added, “Um, Hoist, what’re you doing to add your ‘human element’ that Jazz is insisting on? Everyone else has added all the good, festive ones. I can’t think of anything I could contribute that’s unique!”

“I think we could help you with that.”

Bumblebee looked up in surprise as Sunstreaker cast a shadow over him, grinning. Sideswipe leaned lightly against his twin, wearing the same mysteriously sinister smile.

“I think I’ll call you back, Hollywood. Beeper signing out,” Bumblebee said, hanging up and then eyeing the Twins cautiously. “What are you up to?”

“Well, Bee, we know plenty of things humans do to—eh, _for_ each other,” Sideswipe declared.

Bumblebee raised an eyebrow, planting his hands on his hips. “You two do know that _Prowl_ is coming to this party, right?”

Sunstreaker scowled momentarily. “Sure, we do. He’s already threatened us with scouring the underside of the _Ark_ if we do anything involving organic food, craft supplies, strings of lights, and Silly Putty.”

“We don’t even know what Silly Putty is,” Sideswipe added with a shrug. “But since Bluestreak is on his best behavior for his brother, we want _you_ to help us come up with something really special for the Doc-Bot!”

“You can appreciate a prank in good spirits, can’t you, Bee?” Sunstreaker’s tone was one that Spike might have described as ‘dripping honey’.

Still, Bumblebee figured he didn’t have anything better to do. “Okay,” he agreed with a small smile. “What’ll be your code names?”

—

“Did you come from a Sire who, out of billions— _trillions!_ —of Cybertronians, was the one to find a cure for one of the most lethal plagues known to our race? Did you receive Cybertronian medical training for vorns on end under the most prestigious instructors available on our planet? I did and I have, so I think I ought to be bold and have freedom enough to ask that I receive a bit of respect for my accomplishments from you, but if you think you can’t do that, Sparkplug, go take some classes on the subjects I’ve mentioned and maybe we can talk. In the meantime, since I’m the authority to go to when it comes to Cybertronians and their wellbeing, let me tend to my patient!”

Wheeljack, who had by this time stirred from stasis, was huddled in a corner, cradling his burnt arm and watching the mostly one-sided argument in dazed trepidation. Ratchet was using the fact that Cybertronians didn’t breathe to his advantage; he was firing off words so quickly Sparkplug couldn’t take a breath to start retorting.

Finally the human bowed his head, surreptiously glanced at the watch he wore, and then sighed, stepping out of the way. Ratchet smiled thinly and transformed. “Hoist, load Wheeljack—where is Hoist? Ugh, never mind. Wheeljack, I need to get you to the lab to treat the more serious burns on your arm, the ones the WheelPACK wasn’t equipped for. Can you climb in on your own?”

“I…think so,” Wheeljack grunted, crawling into the back of the ambulance. Though he remained silent, he was inwardly screaming. If only he had Jazz’s internal comm. code! How could he warn him about Ratchet’s imminent arrival?

As Ratchet flipped on his sirens and drove out of the secondary lab, Wheeljack caught a flash of green and realized Hoist had been waiting outside. His fellow engineer popped out of the shadows, his visor alight with panic. Wheeljack painfully pried his hand away from his wounded arm and flashed a chirolingual sign at him just before they rounded the corner. He hadn’t been able to touch, to stimulate the nervecircuits which translated chirolinguistics, but hopefully Hoist knew enough hand slang to understand.

It took some minutes to maneuver through the _Ark_ ’s more constricting hallways. Leaning against the inside wall of the ambulance, Wheeljack stared anxiously out the fore window as the primary lab loomed ahead. Fortunately there didn’t seem to be any movement by the small window in the door.

Parking in front of the door, Ratchet let Wheeljack out and then transformed, letting the engineer lean against him. “I’ll have the arm fixed up in a nanoklik,” Ratchet announced briskly. Wheeljack didn’t respond as the doors slid open, revealing a dark and silent lab.

“Odd. I was sure I left the light on when I left,” Ratchet stated, perplexed.

“Well, uh, the state you’ve been in, can you be sure of anything?” Wheeljack laughed nervously.

Ratchet paused right before the threshold of the lab, giving Wheeljack a sideways look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Instead of answering the question, Wheeljack coughed raucously. “I—I—agh, it hurts,” he choked out, coughing a few more times, each more violent than the last. Anything to get Ratchet going…

“What _was_ that substance that exploded, Wheeljack?” To Wheeljack’s surprise, which he quickly stuffed away, Ratchet actually sounded worried.

“Well, I was…experimenting with hydrogen and oxygen…source of ignition—”

“Primus, Wheeljack! You ought to know better than that!” Ratchet gasped, latching onto Wheeljack’s shoulder—fortunately the unburned one—and dragging him into the lab. “You must have it in your vents!” Ratchet’s swift pace barely faltered even though they were walking in complete darkness, though he did call out sharply, “Teletraan One, turn on the fragging lights!”

The lights did blaze on at his command, revealing a crowd which released a raucous cheer. Ratchet couldn’t help but jump in alarm and Wheeljack laughed before moving in front of him and clearing his throat.

“Um…surprise, Ratchet.”

Ratchet blinked a few times, his optics trailing over Wheeljack’s shoulder toward the Autobots present. “It’s not my creation day.”

“May as well be,” Jazz countered happily. “This is all for you!” Snapping his fingers, he added, “Hit it, Blaster!”

Laughing, Blaster transformed and began playing one of the catchy human songs, encouraging the listeners to “ _Celebrate good times, c’mon!_ ” as Jazz slung an arm around Ratchet’s shoulders and pushed him into the gathering.

“Why are you doing all of this?” Ratchet asked in disbelief.

“We just wanted to restore your faith in everyone,” Bluestreak replied, rocking back and forth enthusiastically.

“Including the humans,” Prowl added seriously, folding his arms.

Before Ratchet could inquire about that, loud clanging served as a warning to tense, even to bolt if possible. He tried, but was too late; arms were suddenly wrapping themselves snugly around his frame and crushing him to a chassis much larger than his own.

“Me, Swoop, think hugs are good human habit!” Swoop crowed, squeezing Ratchet even tighter.

“Dinobots, hug!” Grimlock ordered, and somehow all four of the rest managed to crowd in around them, sandwiching Ratchet from every angle. The medic ex-vented carefully, doing his best to smile and stay as limp as possible. His best wasn’t much, so after a few more kliks Prowl intervened.

“Grimlock, we need to show Ratchet the other human customs we’ve planned. Can you let him go?”

Once Ratchet toppled back to the ground, someone who sounded suspiciously like Cliffjumper hollered, “Now!”, causing synthetic balloons and shimmery confetti to rain down from the ceiling. This was followed by two united shrieks of horror.

“Cliffjumper!” Gears screeched at his pace-mate. “How am I going to get this stuff out from under my armor?!”

“You’re not the one who has an image to maintain! I’ve been _tainted!_ ” Sunstreaker howled, rushing from the room in panic.

Huffer, in the process of shaking glitter from his wind deflector, grumbled, “I _told_ you they’d blow a gasket. You owe me a cube of high-grade, Brawn.”

Ratchet wasn’t sure how that conversation ended; before he quite processed what was happening, Bluestreak was pulling him to his feet. “Ratchet, c’mon, you need to see all the treats we made!” he babbled, pulling him toward the table near the back of the bay. “We tried to make them look as humanish as possible, y’know, since this is technically supposed to be a getting-to-like-humans-again gig for you. Did you know that? Anyway, Prowl helped me make all the recipes we could remember—you should have seen him, he measured everything down to the last micrometer so it would taste just like it used to on Cybertron! Although, I doubt the people on Cybertron measured the ingredients so carefully, so it might taste a _little_ different…”

Barely following what Bluestreak was saying, Ratchet let himself be guided toward the seat at the head of the table. “Sit down!” Bluestreak cried.

Stifling a small sigh, Ratchet did so, stiffening almost immediately when he heard an odd splat as a reaction to it. Bluestreak flinched in his peripheral vision and Ratchet whipped his helm around to glare at him.

“Bluestreak. What did I just sit in?!” Ratchet shouted.

With a hand gesture from Jazz, Blaster cut the music and the room went deathly quiet. The Praxian stood frozen in Ratchet’s deadly sights, the only movement coming from his doorwings, persistently shaking.

“Bluestreak!” Prowl said sharply. All he needed was that one word.

“Prowl, they promised it wasn’t Silly Putty!” Bluestreak burst out, now moving closer to Ratchet in the face of the greater threat from his twin. “And since Bumblebee was with them I thought it would be okay since he’s the reasonable, sensible type—”

“Way to throw me under the bus!” Bumblebee hollered, dancing behind Sideswipe, who was badly stifling his laughter.

“Rubber cement…classic! Sunstreaker will be sorry he missed it!”

“Wait, Prowl,” Ratchet cut in before the SIC could pounce on any of the pranksters, his voice forcefully calm. “Since I seem to be glued to my seat for a while, I may as well be entertained, right? Let’s get the boring party stuff out of the way first and save the punishment for the grand finale. But before we start that, I have to know…how did you get Optimus to approve this?”

“I informed him as soon as Jazz shared the idea with me,” Prowl stated.

“And when was that?”

“About a breem ago. Why do you ask?”

Ratchet sighed, rolling his optics. “Well, thanks to a _certain human_ messing with his audials, Optimus probably didn’t hear a word you said. Alright, on with the show! Impress me.”


End file.
